


The Spoils of War

by tambrathegreat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-18
Updated: 2012-07-18
Packaged: 2017-11-10 05:10:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/462545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tambrathegreat/pseuds/tambrathegreat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twelve years before, the Light lost and Severus Snape was saved.  He remains on task to aid Harry Potter in whatever way he can. but only if he can be found.  He comes across a scene outside a slave market that startles him out of his complacency.  After all these years, does the Light still have a chance?</p><p>Any recognizable characters and settings are the property of JK Rowling.  I make no profit from this endeavor</p><p>COMPLETE</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Into the Dark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jilliane](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Jilliane).



> This story was red-moused by Jilliane. She takes care of my commas, and I take care of her Snarry this one time.

The Dark Lord had won over twelve years ago and I, Severus Snape, was surprisingly not killed for my treachery to either side. Not that the Dark Lord didn't attempt it, not that I hadn't tried to die any number of times since Potter's friends, the last of the resistance, fell. 

Several months ago, I watched as Weasley met his fate, a public stoning after being disembowelled by hippogriffs whilst his viscera was set on fire. It only bothered me a little that I was numb to the young man's agonised screams. How could I care when it was my own foetus that had been ripped from Granger's belly only days before that spectacle? 

I hadn't flinched when she was left to haemorrhage to death from the forced abortion on the Gryffindor tower walls, after all. No Muggleborns were allowed to breed anymore, and Granger was the most notorious Muggleborn there was. Not that anyone knew she carried my child. I was no fool to advertise that I had slept with a Muggleborn without having a cadre of revellers to watch and brutal rape to commit. No. I had fucked her a few months before in her cell at her request. She asked for gentleness from me, for some reason still trusting me even if I had ultimately failed us all. Perhaps she entreated me because I had been her instructor, perhaps it was because I was a face she knew, but I gave all the gentleness I could muster to her. I only admitted to myself later that I was just as starved for that type of experience, and hoped that my twisted and bitter spunk would imbue her with the strength she would need to endure what we both knew was coming for her. It was the least I could do after the abuses she had endured because of my brethren, and those inflicted due to my own failures as Dumbledore's spy. 

Potter has not been found. The Dark Lord, though weakened by some strange magical illness, still wields the same menace that he did before his death during the first war. Potter is his first priority, and thus ours, his remaining lieutenants, his Death Eaters, this family whom he has cobbled from the dreck and dregs of pureblood culture, whatever is left. The Malfoy, Black, Lestrange, Longbottom, Dumbledore, Selwyn, Nott, Goyle, Crabbe, Zabini, and Weasley lines are all extinct and others will quickly follow. The Dark Lord was instrumental in their demise and he relishes each murder with the delight of a petulant child too long denied candy. It was always his aim to be the one and only wizard to survive. Those of us left who follow him know this now. We all await the summons that will end our lives. He commits more murders everyday. 

Thus, we all search half-heartedly for Potter, and none of us hope we find him. Whilst Potter lives, there is hope that some portion of the prophecy is true. Whilst he lives, we can draw one more breath even if we are mired in a cesspool of our own creation. I suspect I will be last to die simply because of my blood status. The Dark Lord does so love that I am as much a halfling as he is. 

Contrary to widely held belief, the Dark Lord does possess a sense of humour. It's simply that what he finds hilarious is horrifying to everyone else.

I saw Potter everywhere I went for a long while. I wanted to. I felt that my conscience was appeased when I imagined him in the world, not dead in some mass grave.

It wasn't his dead mother's ravening spirit I wanted to appease, but my own guilt. I had failed Potter in all ways. I could have been his mentor, his friend, some one as important to him as his dogfather. I could have been the one who shaped him, honed his skills to defeat the monster I had married myself to all those years ago. But I wasn't. I was simply my bitter, fallible self with him. I was too mired in my torturous past to see that he was the future and thus I failed him. I am just as much the author of this dystopia as the Dark Lord. 

I walk daily in the markets, more an exercise in futility every day as fewer products appear. The Dark Lord’s pogroms are as effective as any other despot’s in any other century. Tyranny does not breed efficiency, especially when the brightest of society are killed in the name of progress.

On my treks, I normally avoid the slave markets, disliking the stench of despair, illness, and inadequate facilities. I hate to hear the non-musical clink of chains, the discordant haranguing of the slaver as he or she sells their fleshy commodity, but I most especially dislike the silent counterpoint of the slaves on the auction block. It unnerves me to see them in the extremity of their despair, unable to give voice. 

The Dark Lord has taken their ability to communicate, the one thing that sets humans apart from the beasts in the field. It is his special brand of humour that had caused him to do it, but as with all things, his pragmatism is apparent. Voiceless slaves, unable to communicate in any form, cannot foment dissent. There will be no Spartacus to rise against his Roman might. 

My Lord's cruelty always has a cunning edge to it. 

Today I walk through the market, as is my custom, avoiding the piles of rotting food, the second, third or fifth-hand garments strewn on mats in the street waiting to be sold to someone desperate for clothing, just as I avoid the other refuse that serves as trade goods these days. As is my habit, I keep my head down, my hands behind my back. My face is known to all as one of the Dark Lord's favourites, even after he attempted to murder me during what might have been the Final Battle, had Potter answered his challenge. Regardless, I am not in the habit of flaunting my favoured status. I am still the same man who terrorised generations at Hogwarts; I still crave solitude, even if it is less self-imposed than it was before the Dark Lord won. 

I pass a bookseller, not deigning to look at the stacks. Her stock is most useful for fuel or bog paper as the fare she is forced to sell is substandard to say the least since most books have been confiscated and burned. Still, I see her look to me hopefully. I am known to rifle through mounds of shit to find a single tome of worth. I can see by the fit of her clothing and by the gauntness of her cheeks that she needs a sale, even if it is to someone such as myself. I grip my wand in my fist tightly. I have been accosted in this alleyway, and am fully aware that I often walk in the market for just such a purpose. When I fight, I feel alive. When there is a chance for death, I court it. 

Potter was correct all those years ago when I fled Hogwarts on the night I killed Dumbledore. I am a coward. I want to die, but am unable to commit the deed myself. Not, at least, while there is still hope that Albus' child saviour might appear and save us all. 

I am a fool.

I wander along the twisted alley and happen upon a scene that is all too common in these post-apocalypse days. A man stands over a bleeding, semi-nude slave, I can tell the creature's state of bondage by the twisted brand on his cheek and by the lack of sound as blows rain down upon his back and limbs. The slave's blood mingles with the filth of the walkway, diluted by a spreading stream of piss that surrounds his body. It is not an extraordinary sight by any means, and as I begin to turn my attention to dodging a bit of filth, a nearly forgotten flash of green arrests my movement. 

I pause, transfixed by a pair of grass-green eyes below a deeply scarred forehead and a greasy mop of unruly black hair. I draw closer simply to see a sight that has been both dear and hated. I am unable to speak around the gorge that has risen upon realising that I had the one person who can spell both my doom and my salvation lies probably broken before me. 

The brute kicks at Potter who has, by now, recoiled in on himself, protecting his wraith-thin frame, only emitting a huff of air as a boot-shod foot makes contact with a thin arm. The man aims another blow at the hunched figure before I can think to intervene. A soft crack of a breaking bone propels me forward and I once again assume the air of menacing authority that I now so despise.

“Do not strike the creature again.” I let the cold softness of my tone carry my command, hoping it covers the elation that shoots through me at such an unlikely sight. 

“What's it to you how I treat this dog?” The brute whirls about, cudgel raised as if to strike me. He falters, his mouth going slack as he realises exactly who commands him, but he doesn't retract his question. 

_Indeed, what is it to me?_

I dig into my pocket for my coin purse, thrashing about in my mind for the reason I might want to save a lowly slave. In my despair, I have lost the knife's edge wit that saved me under two masters. I bestow a false smirk as the man blanches in fear, before I bring out the sac, clinking the coins within. “I simply wish to unburden you of this creature. I find myself in need of test subjects for the Dark Lord, and am looking for unworthy slaves to fit the bill. I prefer them... whole.”

The man looks from my purse to the body at his feet, a sly smile creasing his fleshy features. He has seen through the lie I’ve just told him, but comes to his own lascivious conclusions as to why this unattractive Death Eater might want a moderately young male servant. I let him have his assumptions as I throw two Knuts at his feet. The man bristles almost imperceptibly at my high-handed treatment, but remembers who threw them and stoops to gather the coins nevertheless. 

I direct my wand at Potter, levitating the young man’s body, aware that I jerk his broken bone in the process. It‘s theatre that I‘m aiming for and the sudden grinding sound of the broken bone dispels the crowd that has gathered. Potter has gone limp, but as I jerk him up, I am heartened to note a scathing look of resentment along with the pain that ghosts across his face. It is an emotion that is shuttered quickly behind lank hair and a dull expression, but there nonetheless. I feel a delightful tingle at the thought of such continuity. 

Once away from the bazaar, I move quickly to Disapparate us from the scene. I pull Potter close to me and feel the uncomfortable fevered heat of his body against mine. It is a sensation that lingers through the vacuum of Apparition and long after I set him aside to dismantle the wards on my cottage.

I pull him through the gate and up the lichen-covered path. As far as the Dark Lord knows, I still occupy the two up, two down at Spinner's End. I spend no more time at Hogwarts, the Dark Lord's seat of power, than I must. He has made it easier for me by dismantling the wizarding educational system. Hogwarts has become a place of terror and despair. I throw up the wards again, haphazardly as I notice Potter's eyelids flutter and his face blanch.

"Hold on, Boy." I lift his slight weight with one hand, propelling him forward as I finish the wards with a flourish. I sound harsher than I intend to, but know that we are exposed even for all my precaution. 

Once inside the house I push Potter down to the floor. If we have been followed, it will not do for one of my compatriots to see a slave being treated as an equal or well for that matter. Potter's strength seems to give way and he slumps to the side, falling on his injured arm. It is unnerving that he is silent as his mouth opens in a scream.

Once I have secured the interior against prying eyes, I turn to Potter. He is unconscious and I proceed to set his arm with a quick Episkey before I fashion a splint out of a cardboard box and some spello-tape. I don't dare too much before I get him to our destination. The state of his health is alarming. Aside from the wounds from the beating I witnessed, he is malnourished, infested with lice, and suffering from infections in old wounds marring his skin. I see all this just from my cursory examination. 

I fashion a Portkey out of bit of trash left from the breakfast I procured this morning from a Muggle vendor. I make a second and third, before I am satisfied that we cannot be followed. I would prefer to Apparate because it is more expedient, but know that the boy's body cannot take much more stress, and my magic is already taxed from what little I have done for him.

I pull his too hot body to mine, vowing that the first thing I will do when we reach our destination is get him clean. His sickly sweet stench curls around us as I say, "Hold tight, Boy!"

We spin into darkness.


	2. The Bothy

It's been three days since I brought Potter to my hideout, a bothy in the centre of an island in the middle of a loch in the Scottish highlands. The remote location suits me. The Highlands, for all their stark beauty, are a lonely place. Economic policy goes to the victors, and Scotland is still feeling the effects of their disastrous support of the Bonnie Prince two and a half centuries after he fled. The Battle of Culloden left its mark on Scotland in ways that no one alive at the time could have anticipated. The population has never recovered after they fled to the Americas, were murdered by famine, or transported to Australia.

War does that to groups of people. It destroys them, makes them flee, and marks them for generations.

However, my concern at the moment is how our wizarding war has affected Potter personally. I dither over when I should remove the stasis spell which I placed on him. He's in a type of suspended animation, whilst he heals. Poppy always recommended the same type of treatment for me. She said it helped the healing process, but I suspect it had more to do with my general recalcitrance in accepting her fussing. Regardless, I placed Potter under one and it seems to have helped, if only a bit.

The boy's body has been ravaged by disease, neglect, and malnutrition, a good deal of which occurred in his childhood according to my scans. He is a child of war of one sort or another. I knew Petunia when she was a child, a more disagreeable sort there never was... well besides me, but at least I had the intellect to back up my surliness. Tuney did not, nor did she contain the barest shred of decency apparently. I no longer have to imagine how well Potter's magic was received in her household. I see the evidence with each scan.

At least my own marks on the boy weren't physical, though to be honest psychological scars are often harder to heal.

I turn from his body; I will need to brew more healing potions than what I have on hand. I will also need to catch a few hours of sleep. 

Who knew that watching someone in a coma was such a tiring, round the clock occupation?

&*&*&

The fucking megalomaniac has called and I, to appear the faithful toady, must dance attendance to him.

I check Potter once more, hoping that I will be able to tend to his needs if... when I return. I remove the stasis spell. I know the horror of awakening under one, not able to move, not able to give voice to the fear that clogs one's throat at being unable to move. I look out the window, a grey day, typical of northern Scotland, matching my mood. Snow will fall soon. Fog already swirls around the heights of the small mountain in the distance. 

I see a flash of silver in the distance, a car streaking past us, the occupants blissfully unaware that the world has ended. 

I turn from the window and watch Potter's somnolent figure, the rise of his chest the only thing that shows he still lives. I ready myself, gird my mind against the Dark Lord's prying intrusion, pull on my black weeds, worn out of habit now, rather than any real sentiment. Mourning the dead is futile, especially when one might meet them at any Summons.

I slip out the rough-hewn door, warding it in case one of my compatriots is tasked to follow me. Paranoia is still a hallmark of the Dark Lord's personality. It's no wonder that he's lived so long.

I spin away, Disapparating to the gates of Hogwarts, my former home.

I walk the path that I've trod, with only a few breaks, since I was eleven, still feeling as if I am coming home, regardless of the mad man who sits in the office of the Headmaster. I mourn the loss of youthful energy filling the hallways. I hate the aura of menace and despair that now clings to the ancient stones of its edifice. 

Once inside, I turn to the Great Hall. It is where the Dark Lord holds court. I see him sprawled in a decadent attitude of repose, his anguiform, ring-bedecked hands resting on the throne he has had fashioned from the bones of his faithful. It is as gruesome as it is unfinished. I wonder, as I always do, where my skull will rest on his seat of power. I sometimes think it will be the headrest, an ossified antimacassar, or at his feet. Perhaps I will hold no place on his seat. Perhaps in death I will be denied as much as he has done me in life. I will be forever banished to the earth, the Black Lake, or burnt and scattered. I have never known my true place in the Dark Lord's hierarchy, only that he bides his time in letting me die the second time. 

He is the cancer that eats my soul. He is the stroke that waits in my veins.

I bow with just enough deference and then take my place amongst the assembled, confident in my ability to hide my hope, as slim as it is. If Potter survives the next few days, I will be able to begin to unravel how Albus' plans could go so colossally awry. I think that whilst I am at Hogwarts, I will visit the rooms below my old rooms. Both Albus and my libraries are housed there, and I hope to smuggle some books out. I'm certain the silencing spell can be broken on Potter without detection by the Dark Lord. I need to hear what the boy has to say about the portion of the war I missed whilst I bled out on the floor of that foul shack.

The Dark Lord speaks his sibilant tones more irritating to me today than they normally are. "Ssssseverussss, you have been absssent for far too long. I have grown to missss your assscerbic commentary."

I step forward, head held aloft, but eyes cast down. "My Lord, you honour me."

It is all the answer he requires, this monster. I know that for which I have been called has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with Dolohov who lies cringing with his latest child rape victim at the Dark Lord's feet. The Dark Lord rises; the rustle of his robes the only sound in the sparsely populated room. There are few faces that I recognise, none of them, aside from Antonin's, from the first war. 

I feel the stricture of time under which I work and nearly succumb to a rare moment of panic. I made a vow to Albus before I murdered him that I intend to keep. If the boy failed, I would find a way to defeat the Dark Lord. Until I found Potter the other day, I worked under the delusion that my vows to the old man meant nothing still. 

I believe in Fate, even if she turned her back on my miserable existence from the beginning. Though to be fair to her, perhaps I was destined to be the Judas in this little charade.

I realise that the Dark Lord has been speaking at length about Antonin whilst I have been tending my milling thoughts. I must regain the mental acuity under which I laboured for two masters all those years ago for my as yet amorphous plans to succeed.

I watch as Dolohov cringes against the child, a girl of about fifteen this time. His tastes have obviously matured. She is silent even as her mouth is open in a scream of obvious terror. She is a slave. I smirk as I remember Antonin's scorn of one of our fallen brethren. Lucius I believe, who made the mistake of falling in love with one of his slaves. 

How Icarus has tumbled, his wax wings crumbling under the heat of his own hypocrisy.

The Dark Lord levels his wand at Dolohov and the girl. She is the first to fall, silently and ungracefully, a swift death for an unimportant slave. Dolohov attempts to flee on his flailing legs, his own desperate noises making up for the mute death of the girl. "Please, My Lord, I have much to offer you still... I promise... I didn't mean... Potter... I will find him... I will never betray you..."

The Dark Lord makes a slicing motion with his wand and opens a gaping cut in Antonin's belly, the blood staining his mouldering fur and spilling on the floor. Dolohov screams, clutching his midsection as the sickening plop of a freshet of blood hits the floor. "You are correct, you _will_ never betray me for any reasssson, Antonin. I will enssssure it."

Dolohov raises one gore-covered hand in supplication as the Dark Lord slices through the air again. Antonin's severed hand flies upward, smacking the wall with a wet sound as his head rolls into the assemblage. It stops at my feet, his eyes still open, and a dawning look of horror in them. It takes seconds for him to die, and I watch as dispassionately as I always have. Even if I have lost my edge, I can still act as though the scene does not bother me, though I tremble inwardly.

My Lord hisses into the silence of the room. "Dolohov failed me in hisss misssion to find the insssolent whelp who opposssesss me and inssstead wallowed in the dubiousss pleasssuresss of the flesssh of filth. Find the blood traitor, or meet hissss fate!"

The Dark Lord turns back to his throne, dismissing all of us with a tired wave of his hand. The lack of strength in the motion captures my attention. There is something I am not remembering. 

I've had great lapses in my memory since my near death. I don't believe they are because of my lack of oxygen after the Dark Lord attempted to kill me, or for some other metabolic reason. The lapses seem to be centred too specifically around key incidents in my life. I have a vague memory of loving Evans, but no idea as to the reason for her withdrawal. I have no memory of meeting her, yet I remember our days spent in play as children. It is as if she sprung whole from my past. I remember the feelings associated with her, but they are muffled without context. 

I follow the crowd out of the Great Hall, mingling with them, letting them carry me towards the dungeon stairs. I take an opportunity to slip down a corridor that I used to use during those hectic days under Albus as a double agent. No one alive remembers this passage. I am as sure of it as my wand skills can make me. I have used it often when I don't want to be noticed by the Dark Lord or those few who are still truly faithful. 

I steal down the darkness of the hallway to the room. I have hours of study ahead of me.

&*&*&

I return home late at night. I took a great chance in staying at the castle, even if the chambers in which I lurked are warded against spying. I am weighted down by the books I have smuggled out of Hogwarts. Several tomes hold some information about the nature of a spell that prevents communication. From what little I was able to read, it will be a difficult curse to break, and frankly, my charms skills are not what they should be. I go about daily life practicing as little magic as I can. Wand work can be traced, and my little stone bothy with its lime-washed walls is my sanctuary.

I enter the hut, hurriedly unburdening myself of the shrunken library, again wishing that there were some spell to displace density as well as mass. Magic must still obey the laws of physics. 

My gaze darts to the bed and my heart nearly stops. Potter is awake, his pale face turned to me from the bed, his eyes glittering in the moonlight that streams from the window.

I turn away from him, unwilling to acknowledge the relief that washes through me and I busy myself with resizing my packages. I hear Potter move restively as I finish, and I buy more time as I stir the banked embers, and place another block of peat on the fire. The fuel catches fire almost immediately and light blooms in the rude chamber.

I finally turn to Potter. He has swung his legs over the side of the bed and is fishing beside it for something. He clutches his gut and a soft exhalation fills the room as he moves the quilt I gave him aside, revealing a metre of nut-brown flesh and corded muscle. His face has taken on an alarming pallor, his brow is suddenly dotted with perspiration and his cheeks are flushed, yet I can't help but admire the well-defined muscles that join his torso to his hips, despite his starvation-enforced angularity. With all that is wrong with his world, he is still as handsome as he was as a child. 

"You shouldn't stand, Potter." I say as I begin to move towards the foolhardy idiot. I hear the scrape of metal on wood. He has positioned a rubbish bin between his feet, and the splatter of liquid on the rough-hewn wooden floor followed seconds later by the acrid stench of urine held too long reaches me. I curse under my breath. 

Up until today, I had taken care of his bodily needs, spelled liquids and potions into his stomach, siphoned his urine from his bladder both accomplished with a spell Poppy taught me. He has not needed more. Potions do not create solid waste.

I quickly vanish the contents of the bin and turn away from the sight of his nudity. His flaccid cock, even now, blazes across my mind. It is as beautiful as he is. I steal to the side of the room that holds the kitchen implements. "I suppose you're hungry now."

I sound resentful to myself. I'm glad of it. It will do us no good if Potter knows he holds some power in our unequal relationship. I remember how angry and manipulative he was as a child. It will do no good for me to once again become a fool for love or lust, or whatever tawdry emotion I have for the boy who should have been king.

I open a tin of soup and pour it into the mean aluminium pot left in the bothy by some other traveller. I situate it over the peat fire on the hook meant for such work, careful not to burn my hands. 

Potter is supine again and he's looking at me with that half-lidded stare of his. I sit on the side of the bed since it's the only furniture in the room aside from a broken chair in the corner, and a waist height table at the wall. Potter budges over, his expression expectant. I pull out my wand and cast the diagnostic spells meant to ascertain his overall health. He watches with mild interest as the colours coalesce over his abdomen, his wrist and his head. He gives a scant smile and then turns from me in apparent disdain from what I can tell from the grimace that crosses his features. I sneer at him and at myself. 

The man still displays the boy's arrogance. I will do well to remember that.

Once I administer the potions needed to strengthen Potter, I fetch the soup from the fire and give it to him in a mug. He drinks it greedily at first. I'm sure it's the first meal he's had in days if not weeks. Once he's done, I remove the dishes to the small washbasin I keep by the door. I will do them tomorrow when I bathe. 

I tread to the side of the bed and hastily remove my outer robes, aware of my own physical shortcomings next to him. I strip to my singlet and pants and pull my own threadbare blanket over me. I listen to Potter's breathing as he drifts from wakefulness to healing sleep, and I wish for one moment of normalcy in my life. My wish is for one moment where sleeping with a person means more than duty, where it means a pleasant ache in the morning, and satiation for a time. I wish that Potter would touch me for any reason. It has been so long since someone did. The mere sensation of a heavy arm clutching me would be enough, even if the person holding me would never do so whilst they were awake.

&*&*&

We go about our days in much the same way we started. Potter has recovered enough to be able to take over some of the lighter chores, thus freeing me to research and to gather plants for his potions.

He makes no effort to communicate with me at all. I want to believe this condition is because of his disdain for me, but I suspect... 

My mind veers from the topic as I hear Potter in the small, chemical WC that is attached to the bothy by a thin wall of still-fragrant pine, an apparently new addition. His movements behind the half-closed door are rhythmic and disturbing. I have told him not to over tax his strength. I rise with no small amount of ire, damning the boy for his obstinacy.

If he wants to kill himself, he can do it after he defeats the Dark Lord. That is the extent of use I have for him. At least it is all I can admit at the moment.

I steal closer to the door and am suddenly frozen.

Potter is leaning against the panelling, one hand braced against the far wall as he strokes his cock, the rough trousers I have given him pooled at his feet. His eyes are closed as he fists himself. On the down stroke, he lets his small finger trace over the flesh of his scrotum. His head drift back as his fist pumps up, covering his glans with a twist of his wrist. 

I watch in fascination as his motions speed him to culmination. I feel the heady pull of desire in my gut, a heaviness pooling in my testicles. I should turn away, but cannot. I want to see Potter reach orgasm. I want to enjoy vicariously his pleasure. 

I am pathetic.

Potter's wrist speeds, his hips canting into his fist, his movements becoming rough. My entire attention is on the darkly glistening member that is being abused so thoroughly. I take an involuntary step towards him and stifle a moan behind my wrist as he ejaculates. He milks his cock, his chest heaving, his legs trembling. It is only after he finishes and I take my gaze from the scene, that I realise he has been watching me watch him. His expression is closed and challenging, and yet contains an element of desire that should not be directed at me. He is Lily's son, after all and I am the enemy as far as he knows.

I flee the bothy, my feet flying with equal measures of shame, arousal, and desire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Please take the time to let me know what you think.


	3. Legillimens

I wake tonight to the sound of a voice. Rusty and disused though it is, it can only be Potter's. He is singing, a scrap of song that I recognise from my summers spent at Spinner's End between school terms. It was popular when I was a young man. It is something by The Who, I think.

I feel outrage radiating from me turning to fury directed at Potter. It is my first instinct when deceived to revert to anger. It is the ease of expression that I find most effective. I almost fall on my face as I rise from the bed, tangled in the thin blanket I have appropriated as my own. Before I realise, I am striking him with the flat of my hand and then with fists. All I risked to bring those books from Hogwarts to break an apparently non-existent spell, all I have done to save his sorry arse over the years, are behind the blows that rain down upon his head, shoulders, and back. It is only after the first rush of madness passes that I realise the only noises in the room are my laborious breathing, and the dull thud of flesh on flesh as I pummel Potter. It takes me more time to stop my fists. 

I have endured years of torture, years of derision. I sacrificed my life, whatever it was, to give Potter the chance to defeat the monster I served. I have spent years looking for him, weeks nursing him to health, and days desiring him simply because he is Lily's son and I am weak, and my answer to his only means of controlling his environment is to strike him. _I am a bastard no better than the mutt._

Potter makes no noise as he curls in on himself. He is silent as glistening tears slip past his closed and swollen lids. My own bruised and aching hands fall to my sides, the impetus of my rage subsiding as I stare at him. I have obviously missed something.

I stalk back to the bed, my body and my emotions spent as if I have had a satisfying sexual experience. I am ashamed at the sense of release I feel given the circumstances for it. 

Potter rises painfully and follows me, stripping his borrowed clothes from his body. He stands before me, his flaccid sex in the line of my vision, his expression closed. As I raise my gaze, I note the dark spots blooming on his ribs, blood trickling from his nose. He stares at me mutely and I return his gaze trying to hide how much I want him. He wants something from me also, but I am at a loss for what it is. I break eye contact reluctantly, and he sighs. 

"I... can... speak. W-we... all... can...it... just..., " he doubles over, the trickle of blood from his nose becoming a torrent that soaks the wooden floor. "hurtssss..."

Understanding floods me and then is quickly replaced with horror. I know the spell, or at least a variant of it. It is one I employed one time on loathsome Pettigrew during his summer sojourn that fateful year of vows. It has been modified to be sure, but it is the same spell that I placed it on him to keep him as silent as I needed him to be in order for me not to enact the vengeance that Black attempted after the rat's betrayal of Lily. 

The spell and I know this well, not only enforces silence on the victim but also precludes any attempt at conveying a message. Body language, non-verbal vocalisations, and communicating facial expressions are blocked. The spell I used on Pettigrew sadly did not have the sadistic element of punishment that is so evident now on Potter. Breaking the original spell requires equal parts sexual gratification and emotional investment on the part of both the curse breaker and the victim. I wonder idly who it was the broke the curse for Pettigrew, even as it becomes clear exactly why the Dark Lord has punished those of us with slaves for treating the wretched souls as more than an object. Obviously the breaking of this curse remains much the same.

It is suddenly clear what I must do. I curse the fact that I look forward to it.

Potter is doubled over now and I can see the effort it takes for him to suppress his vocalisations. What I had thought was disdain was hard-won control. I rise from the bed. I want to apologise for my ire and for the abuse, I heaped upon him, but the words stick in my throat. Instead, I ease him onto the side of the bed and rise. I put his fingers on the bridge of his nose and then reach under the bed for the small safety kit I have assembled there. I pull out some gauze and push it under his nose. "Hold this there whilst I conjure some ice for the swelling."

Potter says in a breathy monotone, "It... snowed..."

He almost pitches forward in reaction to the obvious pain. I steady him and remonstrate, "Shut up, you fool. I don't need you in vapours whilst I try to heal you."

Potter fixes me with an incredulous look but remains silent as I dab at the bleeding wounds. "Stay there. I'll fetch some snow for the swelling."

I don my old teaching robes over my nightshirt, slide into some fur-lined slippers I purchased years ago whilst teaching at Hogwarts. The dungeons were as cold year round, as the bothy is in the winter. Once outside, I give myself permission to react to the situation with shaking hands and an unwelcome lurching of my groin.

I have never been one to give into fantasy. The one and only fantasy I held was of Lily, and even she was more a shield to keep the world out. Yes, there always was a sexual component to my worship of her, but it was always tempered by my hatred of my own masochistic tendencies. One does not survive under the Dark Lord without recognising and stamping out any desire to be punished even by so fair a hand. 

My recent fantasies of Potter have taken on their own lurid life, dangerously teetering on the edge of that well-known French Marquis' content. After I survived the Dark Lord's special brand of regard during the Final Battle, I have no desire to punish the boy. Yet, the idea of rogering him after a session of spanking has aroused me on several occasions to the point where I have had to seek release. 

Yes, Severus Snape has become re-acquainted with his right hand of late. It's not something of which I'm proud, but true nonetheless.

Once I have my burgeoning emotions under control, I scoop some fresh snow into a watertight sac that I've conjured and return to the bothy proper.

Potter sits on the bed, shoulders slumped. The posture gives him an air of defeat, which I have not observed before. 

I grasp him by his chin and raise his head. His lips, now crusted with drying blood, part as I gently place the sac onto his swollen eye. I watch him until he squirms under the weight of my gaze. He is the author, once again, of my own sense of discomfort and it's good to be able to return the favour. "Keep that on your face as long as possible. I'll have to brew bruise-paste in the morning. It needs to be fresh to be effective."

I stride to my side of the bed and slip out of my clothes before sliding under the bunched quilt. He sighs and I tense, feeling the heavy weight of accusation in the noise. 

I fall asleep to the sound of the fire and the soft drip-drip of the blood from Potter's nose as it hits the floor.

&*&*&

We need to fetch the supplies I ordered last week from the Muggle shop in the village. It might be my last trek there, as I've heard talk of Death Eater raids going far afield from Hogwarts. The last one I heard of was in a small town near Aberdeen. The Dark Lord seems to have his eye on training up his troops so that he can start his subjugation of the Muggle population. It's taken him long enough to move. 

I tell Potter about our trip as I apply the fresh bruise paste to his face. Potter's eyes slide to mine then down in the submissive way he has now. I hate it. It irritates me in the same way a cringing dog's posture does. I say to goad him, "Not to worry, Potter, there are some acceptable Muggle clothes for you to wear on the outing in the cupboard, and it's appropriate that you are as marred as I am ugly. No one would believe our association otherwise."

Potter remains silent, as expected and even though I am not one given to idle chatter, I feel I must fill the void between us. "I can break the silencing spell on you, if you wish."

Potter makes no move to acknowledge my statement, but I can see from the straightening of his shoulders and the way his pulse quickens that, the news has pleased him. I say, "It is a simple matter to break it, however..."

Damn him, he looks at me then, his expression trusting. I will have to destroy that trust to break the spell. I know this, but my imagination betrays me. I see, in the small corner of my mind that still functions for such idiocy, Potter laid out on the bed, his limbs tangled in the blankets as I suck his cock. I envision him writhing under my touch, thrusting against my hip, accepting my intrusion with the same abandon I have seen him with whilst he flew as a student. I tell myself that I simply desire him and I hope that my desire will be enough feeling to effect the cure.

I come to myself, imagining a mirroring hunger in his gaze where I know there can be none. I am old, ugly, and unwanted. I have been my entire life it seems. "The task will involve... certain intimacies... between us... I will have to... become... intimate with you." I damn myself for my sudden inability to speak concisely. "We will have to fuck, Potter."

Potter raises his hand to my wrist, caresses my skin with his work-hardened thumb. It burns, that touch. It brings my body to attention even as I struggle to keep my mind from straying to the images that form so easily these days. Potter's thumb moves rhythmically against my skin, his mouth opens and I can see his tongue slide between his lips. It is a spell he's cast on me, one that keeps me still as his hand moves up to my arm, across the expanse of skin which holds the Mark, down to the hollow of my hip where he pauses. He glances up at me, his marred brow drawing his features into a falsely hopeful expression. 

I step away from him after what seems like hours of mutual scrutiny. "I will need to Legilimise you to ascertain exactly how portions of the spell were cast. There are aspects layered onto the original curse of which I am unfamiliar." 

Potter drops his hand then, scoots away from me on the bed. He seems to fold in on himself. I am the reason for this retreat from those ancient lessons in ancestral retribution I gave him. Instead of feeding him tales of false reassurance, I turn to the cupboard. I return to him, thrusting a musty jumper and worn denim trousers upon his lap, both articles donated by a forgetful tourist or hunter some years past if I am any judge of fashion. "Put these on. We must hike to the nearest village to retrieve my order, and I wish to leave this morning before snowfall begins again. I don't want to use magical means of transport, I'm sure that even you can understand why"

&*&*&

Potter lingers in the shop over the herbs lined up in bottles ready to use for cookery. He has drawn undue attention in his silent perusal of the shop as I pay the attendant for the boxes of goods. The woman looks at him with a pitying moue of disgust on her face. "Your young man, he was a handsome one. It's too bad about his... well, I s'pose it doesn’t matter to ye."

I scowl at her. I have never been one for idle chatter and am less inclined to allow comment from a relative stranger go unremarked. I open my mouth to give her a suitable set-down when a clatter of falling bottles sounds behind me. The attendant bustles over to him. "Oh, you puir thing. Le' me help ye put these back."

Potter backs away from the woman, hands behind his back, head bent submissively. I can see the frantic way his fingers work at the frayed cuff of the jumper and the way his face heats. His eyes remain downcast, but I can feel him imploring me to intervene. The woman reaches for him and Potter flinches backwards, knocking a stack of tinned beef to the floor. I see the ragged beat of his pulse above the bulk of the jumper's sweat darkened neck and I step forward. It is not kindness that compels me to aid him. It is an admixture of fear of exposure and irritation at him. Potter cannot make anything easy on either of us. 

I bark, "Put that to rights and wait outside, boy."

The relief I see in his posture irritates me as much as the disapproval of the woman beside him does. I swirl away from them both, gathering the groceries into the mesh bags. The woman retreats to the far end of the counter, shooting both Potter and I speculative looks. She jumps slightly as Potter exits the building, signalled by the discordant jangling of the bells over the door. 

I fish out my father's ancient wallet and hand her a wad of bills. She counts out her portion with an odd expression and puts the rest on the counter for me to retrieve. We've done this before, but it never ceases to surprise her that I seem to be blissfully unaware of how the Queen's currency works. 

The bells above the door rings again. I look up to see Potter crouching wild-eyed in the interior of the shop. A dark clothed figure passes outside the window, a man in wizarding robes with a bone-white mask dangling from his fingers. I know the face but not the name. He is a ruthless bastard, a true believer, and one of the few left from the first war. Potter ducks down below the level of the window and I turn to the woman. "Go to your store room and remain there, no matter what you hear."

She starts to protest and I grab her by her fleshy upper arm, propelling her towards a curtained doorway at the rear of the shop. I bid her to silence with a finger to my lips as I motion Potter towards me. Two other dark-clad figures pass the window as Potter crouch-crawls towards us. 

"Stay here," I say as Potter reaches us. "Do not come out until I summon you."

I push Potter to the woman and hastily ward the room against notice. It is a poor ward, to be sure, but the only one I can effect with such short notice. I spin on the spot and Disapparate to the edge of the village. 

A young Death Eater chases a boy past me. He is screaming, rivulets of blood running down the Muggle's back from whatever curse he has employed to torture him. The Death Eater grins at me, flicking his wand at the boy again, hobbling him with a slicing hex to his Achilles tendons. He falls and the young Death Eater walks leisurely to the Muggle, his grin growing as he falls upon the boy with a flurry of wandwork. 

I turn away from the scene. There is nothing I can do for the boy, nothing I can do to save the village from the depredations of my brethren. Saving Potter is the focus of my attention. I must draw the Dark Lord's forces away from the village so that I might make our escape. It would not do for me to draw any attention to my hideout, nor to Potter's presence in it.

I can only hope that this raid is coincidental and not a result of some colossal fuck up of my own. 

I focus my attention on finding the first Death Eater I saw. His name is Morrisey or something like that. When we were young he wore a flat-brimmed hat that covered his eyes. I remember that he is not a pureblood, but one like me who fell into our little group of anarchists in that era of disenfranchised youth and disaffected men. He liked the torture, from what I remember of him. There is no high-flown grace about his fall from humanity, no true reason for him to become what he has.

I find him near the entrance of the town's nursery school. Children and women are screaming inside. The carnage wrought inside is already evident on the glass that drips red. I don't want to dwell on it, so I halt him with the simple expedient of a well-applied _Expelliarmus_ and then an _Impedimenta_ , even as I shiver at the thought of how Gryffindor my actions are. 

I pull him around the side of the building, out of view of the windows, out of hearing of our compatriots. It takes only seconds to secure his gaze and soon I have pulled the information I seek out of his Swiss cheese psyche. 

The raid was not called for by the Dark Lord. It was not even planned. It just happened with my usual Sod's Law luck. There will be consequences for this war party and I do not want to be noticed. I Obliviate the man, carefully excising my actions from his already ruined memory. I sense some of Lucius' finer work in some of the older scars in his mind. I then cast a glamour on myself, nothing too intricate. I don't have time for my usual subtlety. I then backtrack to the young Death Eater who was toying with the Muggle. 

When I see what he is doing to the body of his victim, I don't bother with finesse. I kill him with a box knife I keep hidden in the ankle of my boot. It's more mercy than he deserves.

I return to the shop, my hands sticky from the shed blood. The woman's snuffling sobs are what I acknowledge first. Once I'm through the curtains, I stun her quickly, shoving her flaccid body into an alcove that seems to be more hidden than most of the room. I grab Potter by the elbow and turn. We Disapparate to a small Iron Age cot that lies in ruins in Wales. I then take him to Brittany in a small group of standing stones I visited once as a teen with Lucius. We hop across Northern Europe, the South of England and finally back to the bothy all to maintain our cover. 

Potter struggles to maintain my weight as I collapse. I fall insensate at his feet and I don't wake for days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Please take time to let me know what you think.


	4. Restoration

Chapter 4: Restoration

It has been days since the Death Eater attack on the village. I exhausted my magical core during our escape and I know enough not to do Legillimency on Ha-- Potter, until I have rested sufficiently. The boy has hovered over me for days, a look of expectant dread on his face. It is my fault that he dreads the process so much, after those failed lessons his fifth year. It is my fault that I used him so brutally, so resentful and bitter was I that Albus forced me to interact so intimately with the spawn of my worst enemy... my worst enemy aside from myself, that is. 

I find great irony in the fact that I am contemplating doing much more than plundering Potter's mind, and with a great deal more relish than is strictly necessary. 

Today, after I have walked the perimeter of the island and assessed my mental and magical acuity, I feel sufficient strength to Legillimise Potter, and so, frost from my breath riming my scarf, I return to the bothy. It is bitter outside, seasonably so, but still disheartening in this bleak environment of scrubby trees and gorse. I feel Potter watching me from the bed, I smell the musk of his lithe body, and I want nothing more than to enter his mind so that I might have an excuse to fuck him. I want more than anything to feel the slid of his skin on mine, the pull of his flesh on my cock. I want to feel... less alone.

I tell myself that the spell requires that type of intimacy, even though I know there might be other ways to effect a cure. There are always other ways, to be sure, though I cannot think of a single one that would be as pleasant or as efficacious.

I pull off my outer gear, stowing my cloak and scarf on the hooks by the door. I sit by the fire and pull off my shoes, seeing the white of my toes through the worn yarn of my dark socks. I say into the silence, as I catch Potter's gaze with mine and level my wand at him, " _Legillimens!_ "

He is, of course, unprepared for my assault. I have always found that truer readings of a person's thoughts can be effected with such a direct and underhanded approach. I need to know how the Slavery spell was cast, and I need to know quickly. I do not trust that my magical strength has recovered enough for politesse.

Potter's mind is still as disorganised as it was in his youth, but in some ways, it is stronger. He struggles against my invasion for a moment before suddenly drawing me further into his mind. He is able to direct me to things he wants me to see. It's not as effective a method against my assault as an actual shield, but at least it's novel. He seems to be attempting to lead me towards a particular set of memories, but I resist. I must see what I came to see before I allow him control. 

He feeds me stale grief and unrequited love, a set of emotions that resonate with me all too well. I am forced to follow this line, suspecting the Weasley girl is the cause of this sorry passion. It is a torture to me to think as much. I want Har... no Potter...to want me without the shadow of ancient despair that so mirrors my own. I know it is wrong, this impulsive desire, but here it is. He was my reason for living for so long that he has become more to me than even Lily. I brutally cut off that line of thought as I feel tendrils of curiosity rise from Potter’s mind.

As I delve further into his psyche, I come across an unexpected construct; a box of memories as it were, one that seems as familiar to me as my own thoughts. Potter seems to be pushing them to the forefront of his mind, but I will not be distracted. I fly past these obviously alien things and finally arrive at the casting of the spell. It will be easy enough to break, as I see it cast, even with the silvered pain that coats the scene. I watch the casting of it, the agony of his first communication afterwards, the burning shame of before the spell... 

What shame has Potter to bear compared to mine? I feel outraged at the ridiculous notion that he might bear any responsibility for the tapestry fate has wrought in our world. It is I who bears the burden of us all. I alone bear the stigmata of failure. 

He pushes against my mind and suddenly I am flooded with scenes from the Battle of Hogwarts. Molly Weasley cold and dead, along with two of her sons and the Lupins. Lucius striding through the battlefield, finding Potter, burning his face with a well-placed spell. In the memory, Lucius' vulpine features loom above Potter‘s for only an instant.

“ _For Draco,_ ” Malfoy says, before he swirls away in a flurry of fustily furred robes.

I see memory Lucius as he was during those days, stretched too thin, fighting his own battles from the bottom of a bottle, uncharacteristically haggard. It is apparent now that he knew the cause to which we had all damned ourselves in our youths was defeated, no matter who won. The Dark Lord had apparently taught Lucius well. We were all fools, only I learned it sooner than most.

Potter, with surprising strength of purpose, compels me backwards in his mind, towards the office that still bars the Dark Lord, was once mine, but will always be marked by Albus. I see him standing over the pensieve, see mercurial memories swirling in the bowl. Potter winds them one by one onto the end of his wand and places them in his own mind. The shock of them, the alien way they slide into his centre jolts me as well. I lose focus until I realise that the memories being restored are scenes from my own childhood, my own private agonies, missing pieces I didn’t quite know existed. It all comes flooding back to me, muffled by the years and the emotions surrounding them in Potter’s head.

And there at the nexus of these memories lies a small ember of... admiration... hero worship... _love_... that is fanned into existence in Harry’s breast by the very memories that I sought to bury with me. It is after viewing these paltry offerings that the boy decides to save me, and damns the world to hell. 

My mind reels as I finally acknowledge what I must have known all along. It was Potter who worked for hours in that hut. It was he, in some sense of self-preservation, who ignored the deadline writ on the air by the Dark Lord, ignored the cries of battle, until I was as whole as I could be under such circumstances. Potter failed to give himself to the Dark Lord as the lamb to slaughter that Albus had reared him to be, so that I might live.

That unwillingness to kill himself, to selfishly save me for his own purposes, and solely that, is the source of his regret. 

The boy's thoughts issue sullenly out of the man's mind. " _It's not fair! I've not lived yet! I have just now discovered love and... I'm only seventeen! I'm afraid of the dark... I’m afraid... afraid.. afraid... that no one will ever love me, no matter where I land... I am only a boy!_ " 

On these thoughts swirl until I batter them away with my own self-deprecatory humour. 

" _Was I worth it?_ " I ask him in his mind as I push my own, extremely accurate, rendering of my self-image towards him; lank hair, sallow skin, cadaverous thinness, dour scowl. Potter's unequivocal answer is affirmative as he super-imposes a more dashing image that he thinks he sees on my mental construct, poor deluded fool that he is.

It is enough for me and I reach for him physically. I barely catch him as he sags into my arms. We fall together onto the hardened earth of the bothy floor. 

We have both been fools for love and the fear of it, this man that is now beneath me, tangled in my clothes, legs around my waist. We have both wanted what we thought was unobtainable, have feared the unknown it would bring.

I am only a weak man and I slide further into his mind, filling him with the desire (and fearful love) I feel, that I have felt for weeks, possibly since that night in the shack. I want the completion we both apparently need, even if it is as ephemeral as a blossom’s petal on a windy day. We are connected as intimately as two people can be without the sticky mess. But I’ll be damned if I stop. I want the ruddy mess, as greedy as it seems. I stroke his cock with my free hand, and Potter cries out in completion. I feel the wet heat on my belly, see the shattering stars in his mind. I withdraw from the delirium before I fall over that precipice with him. 

When I come I want to feel his skin against mine. I want to have his body draw out my essence. I want to fill him with my seed.

I attempt to move away so that I might prepare him for my intrusion, but his arms grasp my neck, his hands draw me forward, and he kisses me. It is a clumsy gesture at first, due to his apparent lack of experience and my own shock. There has only been one who ever wanted to kiss me, and that was done on a cruel dare. She is long dead with her werewolf husband, somewhere on the field of battle. Once the preliminary clash of teeth is over, he slides his tongue into my mouth, shyly at first, but bolder as I experimentally stroke that organ with my own. His breath is hot against my cheek as his respiration increases. It stirs my hair, makes it cling to my sweat-dampened cheek. 

Potter breaks away communicating with his body, “ _I want... I need..._ ”

I pull him closer to me as I grind my cock against his burgeoning erection. 

Oh, to be young and so reactive again, my mind quips, until Potter moans and whatever thoughts had accumulated to mock me skitter away in the rush of blood that flows from my head to regions south. I am lost for the moment, even as my hands work automatically to free my cock from its fabric prison. Potter struggles out of his dungarees, assaulting me with the delicious agony of his effort. 

I prepare him perfunctorily with a schoolboy spell that is known to be adequate in these matters, and even though I have breached him with my hasty fingers, he hisses as I slide my cock into his slick passage. 

I am almost tempted to withdraw as the slight noise slices through his teeth and threatens to bring me to my senses, but he bucks against me impatiently seeming to say, “ _Move, damn you!_ "

I am as enflamed as one of those lusty bucks in the silly bodice rippers that I confiscated for so many years as a teacher. I am lost in the sensation of his flesh around me, his hands claw my back as I ride the certain crest that will peak all too soon. 

His cock, which had gone flaccid as I entered him, has hardened and leaves a slick trail on my stomach each time I thrust. He tosses his head in what can only be ecstasy, and I nip along the tendons on his tender, exposed neck. I am entranced by the trust he gives me with that unconscious gesture of submission. 

It is that abandon that swims like molten gold through my veins and brings me over the edge of the void. I am aware of my hoarse cry as I come, and Potter joins me only seconds later.

We lay in a tangle of limbs and hastily doffed clothing, both of us nearly insensate, until I realize what I've done.

In my greedy rush to consummation, I have forgotten the reason for such indecorous intimacy. I failed to enact the counter spell that would end his enforced muteness. I say as much to him and feel Harry smile against my neck. I can almost see the cheeky grin he gives me. He finally grinds out, "S'okay. Practice makes it better, right?"

I lift my head and scan his features through heavy lidded eyes. He seems to be less affected by the curse, for whatever reason. I say with little rancour, "Shut up, idiot boy. I need you whole."

&*&*&

It is done.

The curse is lifted after a few fumbling and satisfying attempts. Harry lies at my side, our sweat-slicked skin rubbing as he pulls on my painfully erect nipple. The man is insatiable and I am inclined to oblige his questing fingers, but we must talk, and soon. I fee,l with a great deal of certainty, that the Dark Lord knows what I've just done to his slave. Even though I set wards during the actual casting of the counter-curse, even though He is at least a hundred miles away, He knows.

I expect the painful call in my blood from a summoning soon, and I must know why Potter had to die for our side to win.

I won't let it happen... not again.

I won't sacrifice my little bit of peace to save the world.

Yet, even as I think this, I know the decision is not mine. It never was.

"Po-- Harry..." I croak, as his questing fingers slide further down my body. I clasp his hand, pinning it to my stomach, bringing it up to my lips. "We must talk."

Potter wrests his hand from beneath mine, a slow smile on his lips. "We will. Just one more time, Sna-- Severus, please."

He gives me a look from under his lashes, one that is purely him. It's flirtatious, coy, and knowing. I lift his chin with a potions-stained finger, still yellowed after years of daily brewing. "No, Harry. He knows. We'll have to act soon, before I'm summoned... otherwise..."

I fear for both of us, no matter the outcome of this talk. The Dark Lord still has the Elder Wand. He is still the most powerful wizard on the planet, no matter his seeming weakness. 

Potter grimaces before sliding his hand from beneath mine, renewing his titillating exploration even as he speaks. "I know he knows. I've had a piece of his soul in me since he murdered my parents. He's not strong at all right now, believe me."

I open my mouth to scoff at such a ridiculous comment, but Potter has different ideas, and soon he is between my legs, nuzzling my still damp cock, passing a questing tongue over my scrotum. I hiss in frustration but let him bring me to tumescence. I watch the way his lips stretch over the head of my cock, how he bobs his head down, slicking my skin with the end of his tongue as he moves up again. I love seeing him like this over me and accept that even though it may damn everyone in our miserable world, I will let him have his way.

After we spend ourselves once again, Harry begins telling me of his part in the war, of the Horcruxes, and the accidental one that has been part of him since he was a toddler. That festering shard is the reason for the Occlumency lessons, and why we both failed so spectacularly. 

I want to vomit. I want to rage and shout and tear things up. I want to smash things, but instead I say, "I see."

With these two words, I acknowledge what he wants me to do, and I know that I will do it. I will brew enough poison for the two of us today. I will promise him that I will complete the killing of the Dark Lord, but someone else can have blood on their hands. I have had enough.

I will not let Harry go into the dark alone.

I will follow him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Please take the time to let me know what you think.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Please take time to let me know what you think.


End file.
